


Desire in Dorne

by Alayne_StoneColdFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Daddy Kink, Dorne, F/M, Mostly Fluff, Pseudo-Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, and SMUT, basically petyr and sansa go to dorne and have a sexy schemy holiday with a bunch of new friends, there is plot but im playing fast and loose with both book and show canon, to suit my whims
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-20 03:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11912130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/pseuds/Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary: Sweetrobin is dead, Harry the Heir has been executed for the crime, and the realm is more unsteady than ever, but there is no rest for the wicked, as Petyr Baelish and Sansa Stark are already planning their next move in the game.They travel to the sun and sands of Dorne, welcomed by Prince Doran and his sultry daughter, the Princess Arianne. In this new and exotic court they find new faces, and old ones, as alliances are made, pleasures are to be indulged and a Queen is to be crowned...They best not let the heat go to their heads.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Now, this is very much a 'for fun' fic.
> 
> Because the show is shit, and angsty, and at this point I'M BLACKING IT OUT.
> 
> I want some FUN, I want some FLUFF, I want some SEX, and this fic is Petyr and Sansa basically having a holiday. It's what they deserve.

Sansa stepped on to the docks of Dorne with unsteady feet, letting out a silent whisper of ‘thank you’ to the gods for solid land. Having survived the miserable journey that seemed to never end, she fanned her self desperately with the ivory fan in her possession. She also vowed to never, ever travel by boat again in her life, not if she could help it.

The boat, Petyr’s grand ship that he loved so dearly, had docked at the port of Sunspear at the time of high noon, and the sun was mercilessly hot above them. Everyone around her was a flurry of activity, not that she was in any particular mood to take it all in. Sansa closed her eyes and breathed in the ocean air, along with the strange new smells of a foreign land, feeling as if she could happily collapse and simply sit here on the wet wooden planks as sailors shouted around her, merchants unloaded cargo, and seagulls squawked above them all. It was blissful compared to being permanently attached to a bucket in a low ceilinged cabin, smelling of her own vomit. The least painful moments of the journey would be the late evenings, where she convinced herself to go to the deck to be discreetly sick over the railings in fresh air. Only at night though, as less people were about to witness the embarrassment. 

“Sansa!” 

She turned around at the sound of Petyr’s voice calling out to her, watching him sweep down the gangway, the sea winds causing his travelling cloak to flare out behind him, his gaze fixed on her in the bustling crowds. He looked so at odds with the rough ship types surrounding him as he walked, with their bare chests and rough spun clothes stained with sea salt. They rolled barrels of ale and hauled trunks past him, and Sansa watched as Petyr quick stepped around them like a cat slinking under foot, effortlessly avoiding a collision, or worse, a stain to his clothing.

How he managed to look so well put together at the end of such a horrid journey, Sansa didn’t know, as she dreaded to see her own self in a mirror at this point in time. His beard had grown to look more unkempt than usual, but it did him no disservice, whereas Sansa could only hope her complexion was less sallow than it felt, and the state of her hair and crumpled dress would be forgiven. She felt very conscious of being in such a state of ugliness, especially in front of Petyr. In truth, she’d seen very little of him during the journey for this very reason, though it was surely not hard to keep himself from her den of misery anyway. He had given her the ivory fan though, as a kindness.

“By the gods, girl, don’t run off like that. One moment I’m speaking to the ship master and the next you’re out of sight.” He said with only a slight scold to his tone “A foreign port is no place for a young girl to be un-escorted. You could be dragged off onto any number of boats and sold to some king across the jade sea for all I know.”

“I didn’t run…” Sansa fanned herself, in no mood to be chastised, but looking meekly at the crowds around her, so strange they looked to her now she took a moment to take them in.

“Please, you practically pushed men overboard in your hurry to that gangway. When we first spotted the port in the distance, I half thought you’d dive into the water and swim yourself to shore.”

“I was only glad to know I’d soon be on dry land. That I could soon have a bath, and wash my hair. Sleep without being ill.” She said, rather irritably.

“Yes, I know, sweetling,” Petyr said with tenderness, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders “You were certainly not born for a life at sea, that we’re certain of. But we made it. So here’s to testing how you fare in the desert. A Lady of Winterfell steps forth onto the sands of Dorne! A pretty contradiction of terms, don’t you think?” 

He began guided her forward through the crowds with a hand at her back, their entourage before and behind them.

He’d arranged for gifts to be brought from the Vale. Bags and bags of wheat, corn, barley, and pumpkin seeds, a great show of prosperity in times of war. “These are gifts that a practical man such as Prince Doran Martell will appreciate.” Petyr had explained as they had planned back at the Eyrie “While for the princess Arianne and Myrcella, more frivolous gifts. Jewelry, fabrics and perfumes from Gulltown.” Then there was a pack of thoroughbred hunting dogs and exquisitely made longbows for the younger princes, and he had even arranged seven fine horses, one for each of Oberyn Martell’s bastard girls.

From the docks, the winding walls surrounding Sunspear rose up before them. A labyrinth of square flat roofed houses huddled close around alleyways and bazaars on the outer rim, rising up into grander two storied buildings, and finally to two structures that commanded the eye. The tall and slender Spear Tower and the great domed Tower of the Sun, both rising behind the thick intimidating sandstone fortifications of the old castle and grand home of the Martell’s.

“Ugly thing, isn’t it.” Petyr commented.

“It looks ….strong.” Sansa tried to find words for the squat, dun colored keep, unlike any castle she had seen before “We were perhaps spoilt for beauty in the Eyrie.”

“Hm. I only hope it’s more appealing on the inside.”

“Isn’t there water pools and pink marble? People always speak of their beauty.”

“You’re thinking of the water gardens, some miles away.”

“Oh,” Sansa tried to reconcile her disappointment.

She looked up again at the castle and felt less fond of it already.

The docks made way to the edge of a market place, with traders and fish mongers calling out to passersby. Men with great bronze trays full of bags of spices and women with arms laden with jewelry for sale rushed forward, their eyes trained to spot wealth, begging them to buy. Petyr gave them no notice, happy to let the Vale guards push them back. Sansa’s gaze was briefly taken by a Summer Isle man in blue and red striped trousers, who had a small monkey on a chain that climbed up his shoulders, and a whole cart of wooden cages full of the brightest birds she’d ever seen.

Their envoy was greeted by a fair girl, with golden hair that spilled from under a gauzy hooded cloak of faint blue. She stood in front of royal guards with golden spears, but she looked gentle beside them.

“Lord Baelish. Lady Stark.” She greeted warmly “I am Tyene Sand, third daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell. Welcome to Dorne. I hope your travels saw you here well.”

She bent her head prettily, and Sansa felt even more aware of her disheveled state. She glanced to Petyr, to see his reaction to the girl.

Sansa was glad to see he looked less than pleased, his eyes taking in this meagre welcome party. If she had to guess, by sending a lone bastard, not even a first born, and a woman at that, Petyr had taken offence. This was a perilous trip for them, a great gamble of their fates, their very lives, and this is the reception they are offered?

“We had good winds and calm seas, and are glad to have finally arrived.” Petyr said, nothing but charm and enthusiasm in his voice “Tyene Sand? The daughter of a septa, if I recall correctly?”

“You have heard of me?”

“I have inquired about you. Who isn’t intrigued by the so infamously named Sand Snakes.”

“Infamous?” she giggled “Now you flatter.”

She turned to Sansa “But you have brought someone infamous yourself. Sansa Stark. Betrothed of the murdered Joffrey Baratheon, wife of the missing Tyrion Lannister … and the rumors of a cousin’s death have reached our ears?”

Sansa cast her gaze downwards at the mention of Sweetrobin “And may the gods keep him.”

“Truly, was he smothered in his sleep by the apparent heir? Your betrothed? Such a horrid way for a child to die, and by someone you loved. 

Tyene’s saintly beauty did not quite match her words, Sansa noted, her morbid curiosity badly hidden as pity, and if she was clearly making little effort to act the fool. Sweetrobins death, Harry’s swift trial and execution, her unveiling as Sansa Stark and the coup that had put Petyr Baelish in power was all well known now, surely. It was why they were brought here, afterall.

However, Sansa kept her face somber in an apparent show of reflection on her own misfortunes all the same. 

“We all have our grief’s to bear.”

“Too true.” Tyene replied, before smiling sorrowfully, and beckoning them to a waiting carriage.

To avoid the maze of streets and narrow alleys of the common folk, their envoy travelled through the straight passage on a brick path to the palace, protected by high walls and three strong gates. Guards in gold robes stood alert with spears, cloth wrapped around their heads and necks in the Dornish fashion. Their carriage took them all the way to the front of great stone steps, where they were ushered into the castle, led by Tyene.

The inside of the castle was indeed nicer than its exterior. Vast and opulent, with light streaming in from tall windows from behind gold latticed screens, casting intricate shadows on polished floors. The walls were decorated with patterned tiles. Room to room there were high domed ceilings were richly painted with murals of Dorne. Sweeping sand dunes and starry skies, charging stallions, dashing figures of past kings and Queens in battle. Sansa slowed down under one ceiling to spy Nymeria and her ten thousand ships above her, and then there were softer scenes of dancing princesses’ and Dornish orange groves after that.

I was beautiful, and Sansa found herself hopeful to see what their rooms may look like. She dared to feel a glimmer of excitement of being in a new land and a new castle, but the dour part of her mind made her remember that every new place brought some new misery.

‘One false step and I am dead’.

Let this please be different, let Dorne not be a false step, she begged in silence, following behind Tyene and Petyr. 

They were led to where they would be staying as Doran’s guests.

“Prince Doran will see you formally introduced in his audience chamber in the early evening, where you will have the chance to present the gifts you have brought before the court. Then, we shall have a feast.” Tyene spoke as she led them inside.

It was a grand and spacious room, richly decorated. Large arch windows looked out over the city and ocean, its breeze gently moving delicate gauze curtains. There was a low table, covered in fruit and flowers, with pillows and carpets surrounding it to sit upon, and candle lamps with brightly colored glass hung from the ceilings, not yet lit. Sansa brushed a hand across a great stone vase, almost as tall as she was, which had a great carved snake curling around it, with shining emeralds for eyes.

There was one bed close by, its canopy dropping from the high ceiling in much the same way as the curtains. A second bed could be seen further across the room.

This made Sansa stop and look questioningly towards Petyr. He caught her look, and either by reading her very well, or perhaps having the exact same thoughts, he spoke to Tyene.

“We’re both to sleep in the same room, are we?” he gestured to the beds across from one another.

Tyene cocked her head in a way that both suggested she found it strange that they would find this strange, while also clearly anticipating it, and enjoying playing coy to perhaps make them feel out of place.

“Why, would this not suit you, my lord, to share quarters? You are family, yes? A niece and her uncle… are families not so close where you come from? In Dorne, it is common for close family to share quarters. I live this way with my sisters.”

“I am only his niece through marriage, we are not family by blood.” Said Sansa.

“Even so, you spent some time as father and daughter did you not?” Tyene said so casually it caught Sansa off guard “I would have thought you two may have grown as close as blood relatives by now?”

Sansa made herself look out of the window, across the ocean, only so she would not have to look at Tyene. Her and Petyr’s deception of father and daughter was no longer a secret, but to hear it spoken from another’s mouth felt wrong somehow. In her mind it still felt as something that should have stayed just between them.

“We are close,” she could hear Petyr respond confidently “and have no qualms with the room you have generously provided us. It is only different from what we are used to, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“And tell me, does this screen come across then? It looks as if it does.” 

“Yes, for privacy.” Tyene demonstrated how a thin latticed screen could be brought across the room, dividing it somewhat into two. Though you could clearly see through it in the small holes that made up the elaborate five pointed star pattern.

“I would also request that a bath be brought up, if you’d be so kind.”

“I will send for attendants at once.”

After Tyene made her leave, Sansa shifted around in her trunk for a fresh dress to wear, and by the time she had chosen one, an array of serving girls had arrived, bringing with them a large copper tub, pitchers of water and other bathing accompaniments.

They set it up behind the screen, as Petyr made himself comfortable on the low cushions, popping a grape in his mouth.

“May I bathe first fath-, uncle?” Sansa caught herself, somewhat clumsily. The serving girls appeared to pay it no mind, but Sansa had learnt that that they never truly stop listening.

“I would have suggested you go first anyway. Take as long as you want, in this heat I dare say I wouldn’t even mind if the water grew cold.” Though he gestured his hand towards one of the girls as she made to leave “Some wine, if you could. Dornish red.”

Sansa was more than aware that as she un-dressed Petyr’s eyes were on her through that screen. Perhaps if she was not so desperate to finally be clean, she would be more self conscious. As it were, she let a serving girl unlace her, her dress dropping to the floor, along with her sweat stained shift, both of which she allowed to be taken to be washed. Stepping into the warm water, Sansa glanced through the screen to see that petyr’s figure was at least obscured enough where he sat to assure her that she was as equally hidden. He would only see the vague outline of her body, and now as she sat below the waterline, she tried to force her mind away from such thoughts at all. 

Tipping her head back, she wet her hair, and it was bliss. For weeks on that boat she had made do with wiping a damp rag under her armpits and between her legs, what Petyr so graciously called a whore’s bath. One attendant went to work on combing some kind of scented oil through her hair, while another added perfume to the water, and a third took feet to scrub a cloth thoroughly between each of her toes. It was a stark difference, and as perfumed steam rose from the water, Sansa closed her eyes and felt as if she could very much fall asleep right here and now.

“The noble families of Dorne. Let me know you remember them.”

Sansa forced her eyes opened as Petyr spoke from across the room.

“Yronwood. Allyrion. Blackmont. Ladybright. Vaith. Fowler… Manwoody…Wells and Wyl…The Daynes…” Sansa recited, though her mind was hardly at its best, knowing there were ones she had missed.

“I know them, I do, but I cannot think. Must I do this now?”

“In a few hours we will be in Doran Martell’s court, it is best you know now more than ever. When a man introduces himself with nothing but a smile and his name, I want you to smile back, but from that name you will know his keep, his reputation, how many children he has, and how best to talk to him. You have a natural talent for this Sansa, use it as best you can.”

“Yes, father,” she said with closed eyes, knowing she had slipped for the second time, but was too relaxed to care for longer than a second. It is because he is using his lecturing voice, she thought, almost smiling, thinking of all the nights in his solar where he taught her as Alayne…

“You forgot Gargalen, Jordayne, Qorgoyle, Toland and Uller.”

“Will all of these houses be in attendance at court tonight?” 

“I could not say for sure, but I would say most. The Qorgoyles fostered young Oberyn Martell, and the grieving Ellaria Sand’s father is an Uller, so it is best to not forget either of them.”

“I can remember Oberyn’s daughters off by heart.” Sansa offered.

“Let me hear then.”

“Obara, daughter of a whore. Nymeria, daughter of a noblewoman from Volantis. Tyene, who we have met. Sarella, whose mother comes from the Summer Isles. And then there are the children Ellaria’s bore him, Elia, Obella, Dora and Loreza.”

“Dorea, not Dora.” 

“Dorea.” Sansa quickly corrected herself.

“And what of Arianne Martell? Tell me what you know of her.”

“She is Doran’s heir, even though she is a woman.”

“Mm, that is how they do things here. I would dare say she is as bold as a male heir, if I’m to believe all I’ve been told of her. Prepare yourself for the ways of Dornish women, sweetling, they have a different kind of courtesy than the kind you are used to dealing in.”

“You say they are not courteous?”

“Not at all, only that they have a certain manner that might affront you. A Dornish woman will sit on pillows such as these and splay herself in whatever manner she finds comfortable, no matter which company she finds herself in. They play at cards and dice, and they can be just as bawdy as the men among them.”

“Elia Martell was always said to be gentle and gracious.” Sansa pointed out.

“I don’t paint them all with the same brush, I only warn you not to look too wide eyed if they start discussing the going’s on of their bedroom with you. In my experience, sex and cocks and cunts is what Dornish women like to gossip about most.”

Sansa did get a little wide eyed at that, but she was glad Petyr could not see to be proven right.

“And are you sure that is fair to say, and not born from the fact that most Dornish women you have met have been ones hired in your brothels?”

He was silent for a moment.

“…a mans experience shan’t be taken away from him, Sansa.”

“Of course.” She smiled “If any such gossip takes place within the circles of these higher born ladies, I shall be sure to inform you.”

“Oh, please do.”

He continued to test her on sigils and house words, keeps and castles, feuds and families all the way through her bath, as well as a story of a Dornish woman he had met in a Gull town tavern and the strange things she could do with a bag of walnuts and a spoon, until the water grew lukewarm. It was no matter, as a serving girl who had washed her hair went to fetch more warm water as Sansa got out, was dried off, and wrapped in some kind of long cloth robe that was put on her and tied at her waist.

They all but swapped, as Petyr went to take his turn, and Sansa flopped down lazily where he had sat, chancing a taste of the grapes as well. They were the kind with seeds in them though, the kind she did not like.

One of the serving girls approached her, dipping her head lightly, holding some kind of carved pearlescent box with gold edging. Sansa sat up, staring at the beautiful box.

“What is that?” she asked the girl.

“It is for you, my lady. For your face.”

Sansa stared in question before the women knelt in front of her on the carpets, opening the box and revealing an array of what looked like paints and brushes. She started to arrange and sort through them but Sansa cut her off, realizing what they were.

“Oh, no, I don’t wear powders.” She said, thinking of the way Lysa had slathered her face ghostly white to hide her sallow skin, but looking at the colours here she could see jade greens and plum pinks.

“Powders?” the girl looked confused.

“Yes. No, I don’t want anything on my face.”

“Not on your face, my lady. Your eyes! Your lips. This is what these are for. Here, look.” The girl lowered her lashes and pointed to her own eyes, where Sansa could see an outline of black, and a faint ochre colour against the girl’s tan skin.

“Ah. I suppose it is pretty on you…I am not sure how it would look on me though.”

“Would you like blue, to match your eyes perhaps?” the girl suggested, but Sansa cast a doubtful look at the bright sky hue.

“No….no. You can do what you have done on your eyes on mine, but nothing more.” She instructed, still wary, but sure this was the least drastic of her choices. Besides, this may be what was expected of her, and the girl may even have been sent by the likes of Tyene or Princess Arianne, and she would not want to offend them.

She knelt on the cushions in front of her as the girl got to work. Sansa watched as she took a small pot of the ochre colour and tapped a miniscule amount of the powder onto a small pallet, before taking another jar of what looked like water or perhaps was some sort of oil. She mixed them with her brush and instructed Sansa to close her eyes. She felt the mixture glide across her lids.

“I shall not put much on. Your skin is so pale, like milk. You do not need much for it to stand out.” The girl told her.

Next she mixed a jet black colour, and that was what was to go around her eyes, and then after that her eyelashes were coated with dark powder.

“Us Dornish sometimes run this through our eyebrows too, but your hair is so red and so fine, I fear it would look strange.”

Sansa did not mind that her eyebrows were left alone, as she then went on to let her lips be stained with a reddish tint.

“There,” she said as she finished “What does my lady think?”

The girl held up a gilt mirror for Sansa to admire her artistry, and her initial reaction was surprise. For a second she did not know what to think. Her eyes looked somewhat severe with the harsh black line around her pale blue eyes, making them stand out fiercely, but as she looked and turned her head, she rather thought it wasn’t bad. The ochre colour did not look as strange as she envisioned, and rather blended into the shadows of her eye, and her lips looked as if she had just eaten fresh cherries.

“It is…nice.” She said eventually, blinking, trying to adjust to seeing her face like this.

“You look beautiful, my lady.” She was assured, but Sansa wanted to see what Petyr thought.

She let herself be dressed and laced, and waited for Petyr to do the same on his side of the closed lattice screen. He soon emerged in a burgundy and gold doublet, laced over a loose linen shirt.

“Thank the gods that the suns setting soon, this heat does nothing for ones comfort, and I say this as a man who’s lived through summer in Kings Landing for a time, I cannot imagine how you’re faring.” Petyr chatted idly as he approached her where she sat.

Once he caught a look at her face he stopped.

He seemed to need a second to react to her look, just as she had, but she hoped nervously he did not think it looked strange.

“Well. I had wondered what the girl was doing to you as a I listened in.”  
He said, still observing her “Come, stand up. Let me get a look in the light.”

She made her way obediently to him, where he placed a hand under her chin and tilted her face this way and that, her eyes darted to the ground so that he could see how long and dark her eyelashes looked.

“Very beautiful.” he said softly, and her heart soared.

“You think so? It does not look out of place on me?”

“Not at all. If anything, it enhances your features. Your eyes are dangerous at the best of times, now I feel sorry for any man un-prepared to face their charms.”

When the time came, she placed her hand over Petyr’s arm and they were escorted together to the throne room.


	2. A Welcoming

They had Vale men either side of them, but as they approached the ominous doors, Sansa felt the same nerves she had felt her first time in Kings Landing, with none of the girlish thrill. Chin up. straight back. Sansa walked with practiced perfection. They would only see the girl she wanted them to see.

“Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lady Sansa Stark, Dowager Lady of the Vale of Arryn, and heir to Winterfell.” The herald cried as they entered to the gaze of a hundred strangers.

They were all dressed in an array of colours, from pale purples to the brightest oranges. The hall itself was vast and spacious, with high ceilings, the last light of the day streaming in from uncovered windows. Sansa could not let her eyes roam more, as she focused her attentions on the prince.

As they made their way towards the throne, Doran took the measure of them with a clear dark-eyed sweep. Petyr had told her he suffered from gout, that his legs were grossly misshapen. You could not tell from looking at him here, with his fine robes of rich amber silk falling to his feet, but she must not think of what they hide now. At a place to the thrones side, on large cushions, sat little Myrcella Baratheon. Sansa spotted her at once, even as she was dressed in Dornish garb. Even with a sweep of silk that covered half her head, there was no mistaking that spun-gold Lannister hair. Myrcella looked excited to see her, and Sansa smiled a small smile for her, trying not to think of who her mother was, or her brother, or her uncle. Who know what Myrcella had heard or been told. The boy next to her must be the young prince, Trystane, her betrothed. There was a similar pillow on Dorans other side, though no one sat there.

Close to the throne stood a figure dressed all in black cutting a somber figure. The widow Ellaria Sand. Sansa remember her from her time in Kings Landing, the way the Dornish woman tipped her head back to laugh at jokes told at Joffrey’s wedding feast, and Sansa had envied her happiness. Now she stood with her four little bastard girls close to her side, her face devoid of anything, and there was nothing to envy now.

They stopped before them all, and Sansa dropped in curtsey, while Petyr swept an immaculate bow, and came up as if he owned the room already.

“Dorne welcomes you.” Doran spoke with a low ease.

“We count our blessings to have made it here, your grace, to be here in the great land of Dorne” Said Petyr.

“It is beautiful here.” Sansa added prettily.

“That it is. The last place winter will touch. Enjoy it as it lasts, before the hard years start. The support you bring from the Vale is greatly appreciated Lord Baelish. As are the ties in the North in you, Lady Stark.”

It gave Sansa a sense of respite to remember that just as Doran was useful to them, they were of use to Dorne. 

Petyr smiled “A great alliance is in the making, I am sure. But support is not the only thing we bring you, my Prince.” He gestured for the Vale attendants that accompanied them to step forward, each of them holding a wooden chest. They stepped forward before the throne, dropping to one knee as they each opened their chest to present to the court.

“Wheat, barley, rye, oats, seeds and more. The Vale is plentiful, and we share our bounty with our allied friends. 

“Such small amounts, father?” Trystane said questioningly. He was only a young boy.

“This is only a taste of what we have brought you.” Petyr addressed him kindly “The rest of which has already been taken to fill your stores, barrels upon barrels worth.”

Doran nodded “They are well received. We thank you.”

He might have said more, if not for the interruption of a door to the side of the room being loudly opened, and the attention of the court shifted. Sansa turned to see movement in the crowds of ladies and courtiers. Someone had entered from behind where they stood, and in haste they moved as if parted by an invisible hand.

The cause was a girl. No. A woman grown.

Brown skinned, with long dark hair to her waist, in a dress of bright turquoise, adorned with gold.

“The Princess Arianne Martell.” Came the Heralds somewhat uncertain cry, as Arianne walked as if she had not disturbed anyone at all, right to the pillow besides her father. People were looking aglance to the people besides them, a few low murmurs from those with more daring.

Doran himself however, gave her an unmistakably withering look.

“How nice of you to join us, daughter.”

“Forgive that I am late father,” she said with nary a care as she took her seat beside him “We travelled farther on my days ride than planned. You know I can never say no to my mare when she wants to run.” And then she turned her gaze to Petyr and Sansa, still stood before them.

“And these are the Valemen, I presume? Lord Baelish and the Lady Stark?”

“That we are, my princess.” Said Petyr “And may I say that I have been under the Dornish sun since it rose this morning, but it is only now in your presence that I am truly dazzled.”

There were a few titterings from the court, and Arianne’s own features spread into a curious smile at his brazen flattery.

“And you chose the right time to arrive, I’d say. Just as we are giving gifts.” Petyr beckoned forward another array of attendant’s.

“I do so love gifts…” Arianne sat up slightly to look over the open chests and their treasures presented to her.

“Fabric for you to have dresses made, my princess, with Gulltown pearls for trim,” Sansa spoke “A shadowcat skin for your bed, and perfumes made from the wildflowers that grow in the fertile hills of the Vale. Picked before the Winter overtook them.”

“We have no need for shadowcat skins here in Dorne, it is far to hot, but as for the fabrics and perfumes, I thank you.”

“It is hot now, but as my lady’s words remind us, winter is coming. You will want to be warm, I trust?” said Petyr.

Arianne smiled coyly at him “I have other ways of warming myself at night, Lord Baelish. That you can trust.”

Sansa did not let her face betray her, but she observed closely the very low cut of Arianne’s dress, and the sheer fabric that showed almost the entirety of her nipples.

The gifts for Trystane were presented next, the hunting dogs brought in on leads, to which the young prince was charmed with. He was thankful as well for the bow made from springy Vale wood, taking in good grace the one intended for his brother for safe keeping.

The horses too, all eight of them, were brought through to the delight of the court. They wore golden bridles, and had been finely trained to stand impressively in a straight line. 

“Mother, mother, can we choose one now? I want the white one.” Little Obella tugged at her mother’s skirts.

“I want the chestnut, he looks the swiftest.” Elia, the eldest, spoke just as eagerly.

With a nod of his head, and the slightest of smiles, Doran allowed the girls to run to them with the joy most little girls have for horses, as they patted their soft hides and held their palms up to be nuzzled. The mood of the entire court was lifted to see them pleased. Bastards truly are treated with less scorn here, Sansa noted. She thought of her half-brother Jon, and how he had never been gifted anything from any Northern bannermen, save Uncle Benjen of course. 

It was not soon after that that Prince Doran called for attention. The formalities were over, and the night’s feast would be taken in the gardens this evening, with all permitted to attend.

As they were ushered out and they moved along a vast corridor, Petyr spoke lowly in her ear “He cannot sit in that throne with his legs unsupported for long, it gives him great pain, but he will stay there until every single man and woman has left that hall. He will not let them see him struggle, with his attendants lifting him from throne to his chair.”

“He seems a man with great dignity.” Sansa mused.

“A welcome change to the usual ilk we have dealt with that sit their asses upon a throne.”

Sansa let out a humorless laugh “I would like to see Cersei with swollen painful knees.”

“And more besides.” 

When it was said the feast would be held in the gardens, Sansa had wondered how that was to work, but they were led through halls and under archways to a well sized open courtyard. They stepped out under stars and palm leaf trees. The tiles on the ground and walls were in beautiful patterns, and there was a long pool of dark water as the centerpiece, lily’s floating on its surface, along with little tea light candles. There were lanterns lit as well, hanging from archways and the trees, creating a low glow in the dusk. 

“It’s beautiful.” Sansa marveled.

Petyr was more concerned with where they were to sit “Is there a table of honored guests? I don’t see one. Where will Doran be sitting?”

But if there were any formal arrangements, they were not apparent. The feel of the room was languid, with ladies and courtiers moving freely about, sitting as they pleased, standing and talking in small groups as they arrived and greeted each other with kisses against their cheeks.

Petyr and Sansa did not stand alone for long. Many men and women came up to introduce themselves. Minor houses and major houses alike. Sansa parroted off niceties to each of them, curtsying, smiling prettily and occasionally having her hand kissed by some of the bolder young men. Petyr, of course, they engaged with more political discussions. Talk of the coming winter, of the Vale, and of commerce. Sansa stood to one side of such a conversation, wanting to listen, until she heard a cry from behind her.

“Sansa!” 

She turned, to find Myrcella, who hurried over excitedly to clasp Sansa’s hands in hers. Trystane close behind her.

“Oh, it’s a joy to see you!”

Sansa was taken by surprise but quickly gathered her wits about her.

“Myrcella, yes! Look at you, you are a sight to see, in your Dornish dress and all!”

“Yes, they’re all I wear now. They are so comfortable and so lightly made here, any other fabrics make you sweat so! I don’t know how you are faring in this, as pretty as it is.”Myrcella gestured to Sansa’s dress, which was light blue, a Kings Landing fashion, off the shoulders with big puffed sleeves and a corseted waist 

“I am a bit warm, but it is not so bad.” Sansa said.

“Mm, it is not so bad at night time, it is always a little bit cooler. Come, sit with us. I want to tell you all about it here.”

As she was pulled along by the hand, Sansa sent a bemused look back towards Petyr, who had kept a glancing eye on her, even as he was entertaining a lively debate over trade routes.

They were clearly both thinking of Joffrey. Myrcella’s brother was dead because of her. At least according the rumors that were rife about the kingdom, thanks to Cersei. 

Petyr could only give her the same bemused look back, as if to say ‘I don’t know why the girl whose mother has a warrant out for your murder wants to be the best of friends with you either’. 

There were many circular tables, very low to the ground, arranged with many rugs and pillows around them, with many courtiers and ladies having already made themselves comfortable. Myrcella led them to a table of their own, where they sat themselves down amongst the cushions. Sansa attempted to arrange her skirts in some way that they would not crease terribly, sitting on her knees, keeping her back straight in her corset, and wondering how on earth one sits in a lady like fashion on the ground. 

“You will never believe who else is here,” Myrcella said “Garlen Tyrell and his Lady wife, Leonette Fossoway!”

Sansa did her best to act surprised.

“Are they really!? When did they arrive?” she asked.

“Only just a week or so ago. They were some of the first to answer the call Prince Doran sent out.”

Yes, Sansa thought. Petyr had known, or had at least guessed, this was where Garlen and his bride were headed. He had received a raven from an informant about the two Tyrell’s ‘discreet’ departure from Kings Landing. One could only assume they had received the same raven from Doran, the call to Dorne, the offering of an alliance. Seeing that the tides were turning against Cersei, it only furthered Petyr and Sansa’s decision to set out to Dorne as well.

Myrcella’s brow furrowed “They’re not very happy at the moment, about Margaery’s imprisonment. I told them not to fear too much, since they imprisoned my mother too, but she is free now, and I’m sure Margaery will be pardoned as well. Tommen wouldn’t let her die and he is the king….”

Did I ever sound so utterly foolish in my innocence? Sansa thought quietly to herself, even as she reached to cover Myrcella’s hand with her own, in a show of tenderness. She was sure she did. She was glad not to be this girl now.

“I’m so worried about my family these days, while I’m so far away. Joffrey is dead and it doesn’t sound as if my mother has taken the heartbreak well. There is so much happening in the realm, so many bad people out to hurt one another, one can become suspicious, paranoid…I could not believe she thinks uncle Tyrion guilty, and you as his wife!”

Sansa hoped the flinch of her hand was not obvious. 

“Oh, please! I mean no offence to bring it up! I never believed the rumors. I simply think….my mother is out of sorts lately. She is grief stricken! First the loss of my father, and then she widowed, then I went away, and then what happened to poor Joff,…and those awful lies Uncle Stannis is telling the realm! That we are bastards! I have no doubt that Stannis was the one to kill Joff. He has always wanted to be king, and they say Renly was killed by him as well! Yes, he is the murderer, not you, not my dear uncle Tyrion, I know you both, you are both too sweet! When I see my mother next I will remind her of this. Make her see sense.”

“When you see her…?” Sansa gently prompted.

“Yes, I know…,” On better judgment, Myrcella paused to lean in and whisper to them what she was about to say next “I know Doran has plans for Tommen and mother to no longer rule. That it is better for the realm. He speaks sense…I doubt Tommen ever wanted to be King, it is not in his nature…and then once mother no longer has to worry about running the realm, she can perhaps go back to Casterly Rock, and I will visit, and she can come here to Dorne! And she will be much better for it.”

And with that, Myrcella gave her a sweet smile. It was almost sad to look upon.

Their talk moved to less morose topics, with Trystane and his friends and Myrcella’s ladies joining in, as many varieties of exotic dishes started appearing on the tables. Amidst the general chatter, Sansa gracefully excused herself.

She found Petyr amongst a table of many finely dressed men, wine shared amongst them as they reclined on silken pillows at their low table. There was much laughter and talk, and Sansa almost startled Petyr as she knelt down besides him on the woven rug.

“Ah, sweetling.” He regarded her fondly.

“Myrcella told me Garlen Tyrell is here, and his lady wife.” Sansa leant in and whispered to him, seeing him smile. She knew how much he enjoyed being right.

“How good to have old friends here.” He said, with Sansa knowing there was more to say when they were back in the privacy of their rooms.

“Here. Have you eaten? Do you have wine?” 

Sansa looked doubtfully at the cup he drank from. 

“I shan’t want any if it’s a Dornish sour, I don’t like the taste.”

“No, here. They have this dreadfully sweet type of wine as well, fruit floating in the jug and all, you shall love it.” He said, procuring her a cup and pouring generously from a jug he pulled across the table.

There was fruit floating in it. Little raspberries, and orange slices, and white peaches. It was sweet, but were Petyr used the word dreadful, Sansa thought it was wonderful. 

“Oh, I like that.”

They sat like this for awhile, embroidered into the conversation and feel of the room seamlessly. Blending in well for how much they stood out. They ate and they drank. They laughed, Petyr’s wit a source of delight when he chose to use it. Sansa’s sweet wine went down easily, and perhaps it was the balmy heat to blame, and Petyr’s easy way of topping up her cup when it ran low, but she drank through three whole cups easily.

Some way through the main courses, a melodic voice called out.

“Ah, there they are! Our newest guests!” 

Arianne Martell sauntered over to their table, flanked by Tyene, Nymeria, and several young men whom Sansa didn’t recognize.

“I hope you don’t mind if we join you?” 

The Princess of Dorne didn’t wait for a reply of course. It was a given that she should sit where she liked. Several men moved to accommodate them as the entourage made themselves comfortable on the array of pillows and carpets. So close Sansa was enveloped in the scent of their perfumes. It made her feel slightly heady.

She was even more beautiful up close, Sansa noted of the princess, but it was not her beauty alone that made her intimidating as a woman. It was the way she wielded it so boldly. Her eyes glanced easily over every man at the table, knowing her effect on them. A jeweled hand brought her thick black hair back over her shoulder, to better bare her breasts, barely covered in her dress of sheer sea foam chiffon.

“Princess, your presence is more than minded, it is welcomed.” Petyr smiled “Tyene we have met, but you my dear?” 

“Lady Nymeria, bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell. You may call me Lady Nym.”

She was pretty, with sleek black hair in a high plait, and almond shaped eyes. She smiled like a girl who had wicked secrets she was keeping from you.

“And this is Garin of the Orphans, and ser Andrey Dalt. Both un-seemingly characters and two of my closest friends.” Arianne introduced the young men.

Sansa looked at them. They did not seem un-seemly. Why, they were handsome too. Was everyone in Dorne as beautiful as Arianne and her cousins and her friends? She should ask them. 

As she looked over Andrey Dalt, he smiled at her, reaching for her hand to take and gently press a kiss to the back of it.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have not met many ladies from so far North. Winterfell is as far North as I can even imagine.”

“Unless of course you cross over the wall. But that’s very very north.” Sansa found herself speaking easily “And I suppose you are one the most southern men I’ve met. In the North we call even those from Kings Landing Southeners but…but really, you are the most southern southerners.”

That seemed to amuse him, and Sansa found herself laughing along too, her mind awash with a lovely feeling as she had another sip of her wine.

“You may call me Drey if you like, most people do.” He offered.

“Drey,” Sansa tested the name “Drey Dalt…. why, what house are you from Drey Dalt? I can’t remember a house Dalt, is that awful of me?”

“We are no major house, my Lady, I do not blame you. Ser Dezial Dalt, a Knight, is my brother, and our seat is at Lemonwood.”

“Oh!” Sansa gasped in delight “Lemonwood! Is that where all the lemons in Dorne come from? I love lemons.”

That made everyone laugh, and Sansa looked about, surprised they had been listening. It did not make her feel bad though, she felt very, very, far from bad.

Arianne told her about the way days were spent at Dorne. How she had plans to show them the castle tomorrow, and have lunch in her private pavilion, which sounded lovely. Garin explained to her why the Greenwater river was green when she had asked. She told Lady Nym that her hair was so pretty, and Lady Nym in turn told her she was so jealous of her blue eyes, and no, no, Sansa said, brown eyes are just as lovely in their own way. Tyene noticed her makeup and then there was much talk from all of them about that. Drey kept smiling at her when she looked at him, and Petyr’s hand had found it’s way to sit gently at the small of her back, and it was such a lovely, lovely night.

It was only as the night progressed, and the plates cleared away, and after desert had been served and eaten, and everyone was saying their goodnights, that Sansa realised that she may be quite drunk.

The exact moment was when Petyr tried to help her up with a graciously offered hand, and she found that her head was somewhat off kilter with her body, and her feet stumbled underneath her. Petyr, thankfully, had another hand to stop her from falling to the carpet.

“Easy now, sweetling,” he said, just to her, as they made their way from the emptying courtyard up through the halls.

“Are we going to bed now?” she asked, her arm linked tightly in the crook of Petyr’s. It had gone so fast. 

“Yes, I should say so. It has been a long journey, a long day, and a long night. Are you not tired?”

“Terribly.” Sansa seemed to only just realize how tired she was, almost yawning on cue “Yes, definitely time for bed. Bed would be nice. Those nice big beds with the curtains and all those pillows.” She mumbled as they walked. So much walking. She didn’t want to walk. Petyr could carry her. She giggled at the silly thought.

When they made it to their rooms, the Vale guards were dismissed, as were the chamber attendants, until it was only them.

Petyr deposited Sansa on the cushion seats, like a little ragdoll, with little more than an ‘oof!’ of indignation.

Not that she complained too much. It was comfy. She burrowed her face into the cushions, mumbling her contentment.

The cushion sank with Petyr’s weight as he came down next to her.

“You’re a silly little thing when you’re drunk, you know that?”

“Mmmnot.” 

“You are. Not that it isn’t charming. You had everyone at the table amused and dare I say endeared. That’s what we wanted. You’re not some harsh icy northerner, with a price over your head for kingslaying, you’re just a pretty, young thing with a sweet laugh and a taste for sweet wine, hmm?” he ran his fingers through her hair.

“That wine was nice. I can’t believe you don’t like it…I drank a lot of it…. are you a bit drunk too?” 

“No. It’s best if one of us keeps our wits about us, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that’s smart. You’re always thinking smart things father.”

Petyr smiled “You keep calling me father, even now.”

“Mmsorry. It’s hard to stop.”

“No need to apologise, sweetling. I actually rather like it, in truth.”

“Why?” Sansa asked, innocently.

Petyr seemed to take a long moment to think, his fingers running through her hair all the while.

“…. It makes me feel as if you’re mine.”

Then he drew her closer, her body slack and malleable as her face pressed into his doublet, her body draped across his. His warmth was as comfortable as the pillows, and his hands stroked across her back. He did as he sometimes used to do in the Vale when she sat in his lap at his desk, where the back of his fingertips would stroke upwards, and then he’d drag back down the same path with his nails. Gently though, always gently. Just enough to feel oh so nice.

Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off into some haze between sleep and consciousness, and at some point a hand came up under her chin, and wet lips pressed against hers in a kiss. My father wants a kiss before bed, she thought. He always wanted a kiss before bed. Oh, they had not kissed in so long. Not on the boat, when she was so ill and so miserable. But she wasn’t miserable anymore, she felt lovely. She felt lovely, and warm, and comfy, and she was glad to be kissed again.

She kissed him as long as he wanted kissing, and when he pulled away she could still feel him so close his breath was warm on her skin. He spoke eventually.

“Let us get you to bed, sweetling.”

“Mmm,” she protested weakly as she felt him shift, and she forced her eyes open “Shall sleep here.”

“No, you won’t.” he sighed, pulling her up.

He handled her across to the bed, and dotingly pulled the slippers off her feet, and pulled the laces of her gown so that she could shake herself out of the billowing dress, left only in her shift.

He pulled back the covers.

“In.” he ordered, and Sansa made no protest, crawling in and burrowing down into the soft mattress and its sheets, eyes closing. So comfy. Even more comfy than the pillows.

“Goodnight, sweetling.” Was the last thing she heard, as the ties on the beds curtains were pulled, and Sansa lost herself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drey and Garin are here and not banished by Doran as they are in the book because creatively I wanted it to happen.


	3. A luncheon

The Dornish sun shone effortlessly through the beautiful, but very delicate, gauzy curtains, casting their rays across the equally beautiful and delicate body of a young girl as she awakened to the new day.

“mmmmmurgggh.” 

Sansa attempted to burrow down her head and pull the sheets over her eyes but as she gained her senses, she very quickly realized she was dreadfully hot, her shift sticking to her unpleasantly. Kicking off the sheets, she wondered how it could be so warm so early in the morning. Why would they choose to build a castle and a city in such a hot and sticky place? Why no one had invested in thicker drapes to block out the light, as curtains were meant to do? Why could there not be an archer conveniently stationed beneath their window to shoot at the cooing birds so that she didn’t have to suffer their chirping?

With her face pressed into a pillow, Sansa also took note that she was slightly queasy, and very, very thirsty. She wanted to get up and get water, but decided the best course of action was to lie incredibly still, until her body could decided just how queasy it was going to be. It had barely been a day since she had last been ill, and Sansa sent a silent prayer to the old gods and several of the new ones to simply let her not be sick again. 

The lattice screen slid away with a dreadful noise that made Sansa wince.

“Good morning.”

Came Petyr’s gentle lilt, as he came to sit at the end of her bed. Sansa whimpered in response.

“Feeling sorry for yourself, I suppose.” She felt the weight of him on the mattress “A heavy head, an ungrateful stomach and a mouth that feels like you’ve licked the floor of a stable?”

As disgusting as that image was, it was dreadfully accurate.

“May I have some water please?”

Petyr motioned for the serving girls.

Sansa heard the little chink of fingers on glass, and putting in the effort to actually open her eyes and raise her head, she saw a water jug placed on her bedside table. With slices of lemon. The floating fruit reminded her of the wine and she grimaced.

“You’re not going to be ill are you?” Petyr misjudged her look.

“No. Maybe. Not sure. I don’t feel particularly good.”

“Just drink some water, little sips, you should be fine.” He said before pouring her a small glass. Sansa watched as he reached into the small pouch he kept his mint leaves in, sprinkling a few of them into the jug of water. She sat up, taking it gratefully.

“Is mint a cure for when you don’t feel well after drinking?”

“No? I just like mint. You know that.” He poured a glass for himself.

“Is there a cure then. Something we could ask the Maester for.”

Petyr pulled a face “There are all sorts of supposed cures out there. Supposed being the key word. Really, after much personal experience, time is the only one that truly work. Though there’s always the option of sticking your fingers down your throat to just get it over with.”

Sansa’s face showed she didn’t seem very impressed either of those suggestions.

“You know, I’ve heard summer islanders skin and cook a canary and eat that for breakfast.” 

“That’s disgusting.”

“I don’t know if canaries can be found in Dorne. That’s something I could ask the measter for on your behalf?”

“I am not eating a canary.”

“Eggs? Sometimes people will crack a raw egg into a class and drink that down.”

“If I do that I really will be sick.”

“I have a suggestion, if my lord and Lady permit me to speak.”

Petyr and Sansa both looked up to the young serving girl, one who had brought the lemon water, and had been idling by.

Petyr looked her up and down somewhat before giving her a permissive wave of his hand “I suppose. What is your name, girl?”

“Ai.” She said simply, head dipping courteously.

“Right. Ai. What is your cure for a night of too much wine?”

“It is an old Dornish trick, my Lord. From Lemonwood. Before an evening of indulgence, you take a lemon and slice it in half, and rub it into the armpit of your drinking arm.”

Sansa looked at her curiously “A lemon in your arm pit?”

“Yes!” she seemed excited to share her trick “I have done it ever since it was shared with me, it works truly. I am never ill.”

Petyr didn’t look convinced “Why your drinking arm in particular?”

“I don’t know; it is just what you do.”

“What if I perchance drink with both arms? A drink in each hand on a particular festive evening? Would I have to do one lemon in each arm pit?”

He was being disparaging and the girl could most likely tell. She shrugged her bronze freckled shoulders.

“Maybe, my Lord.”

“Well, how does it work? If I don’t have lemons handy, can I use a lime in its place? Perhaps a plum? Though that would be a dreadful mess, a plum.” 

Ai looked like she’d regretted speaking. Another little shrug of her shoulders.

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“My girl, may I ask who shared this cure with you?”

“My brothers.”

“Ah, and that’s where I can start to see sense.” Petyr turned back to Sansa “Almost certainly a joke that an older brother might play, don’t you think? To see if they can trick little sister into rubbing a lemon into her armpit….or perhaps they simply wanted her to freshen up a bit before dinner and could think of no better way to ask.”

Sansa could see Ai’s face turning pink.

Petyr, done with his amusement, dismissed her “Go on then, off you go. Thank you for your suggestions, they were surely eye opening, though perhaps not for us.”

She scuttled off quite fast, to the tittering’s of two other serving girls who had been listening in.

“You really shouldn’t be so mean to the serving girls.” Sansa said. Not that she cared deeply. She said it with the same air as when she chided Rickon for chasing after pigeons in Winterfell’s courtyard. It was more about decorum that it was the dirty birds he was bothering.

“Was that mean? Sweetling, you haven’t seen me be mean. If I had been mean she would have been in tears.”

“Well, you certainly weren’t kind. You like teasing them, and you know they can’t tease back. They’re easy pickings for you, you’re a fox in their hen house when it comes to wit.” 

“Oh, I know. But they’re just so easy when they’re so young and…empty headed. There are a lot of empty headed people at court of course but then I can’t tease them too brazenly, I need things from them. If not for the serving girls, I wouldn’t have any outlet. Unless I were to start teasing you of course.”

“You do tease me.”

He smiled and clipped her gently under her chin “It’s all love, sweetling. Now, hurry up and eat and dress, we have been invited for lunch and you’ve just about slept till noon.”

He left Sansa there, as the girls brought in a plate of breakfast, washcloths, and her clothes, feeling the warm sense of validation and fondness she always did when told that he held love for her, while also fearing that he sometimes saw her as rather empty headed too.

 

Thankfully, Sansa had not been ill once she rose from her bed.

Less thankfully, the feelings of nausea had yet to leave her.

She had washed her face and dressed tentatively, and refused all food. A smart move, considering the way the serving girls had laced her gown. She doubted they were used to the more northern styles. Corsetry did not seem so popular here, with the preference for looser, more flowing gowns that draped around girl’s waists. So it seemed they approached this new task with gusto, pulling the laces as tight as possible. Unfortunately, as Sansa walked around her rooms and began to realize this was far, far tighter than she could feasibly deal with throughout the day, they well and truly needed to leave for lunch. Having wasted so much time moving slower than usual in a bid not to be sick.

“You will be far too hot in that.” Petyr said as soon as he saw her ready. She was wearing a silver velvet dress with embroidered Stark Heraldry, but there was no time to change, if they weren’t to be more late than they already were.

And thus, Sansa had walked from their rooms, been escorted through the halls and down staircases, and out to the gardens, all while looking graceful and peaceful, never mind the consistent chanting within her head of ‘you are fine, you are fine, you are fine, you are fine’ despite feeling everything besides fine.

“And the little wolf has risen!” cried Arianne as she spotted them enter her private pavilion “We thought perhaps you wouldn’t be joining us.”

“Having enjoyed yourself so much last night.” Drey said playfully towards Sansa from where he sat besides Arianne. There were those she recognised. Garin sat besides him, Lady Nym and Tyene, a woman named Alyse Ladybright, whom they had met in passing last night and was Lord Treasurer despite being a woman, and her daughter Jayne. A pair of pretty Fowler twins. Garlen Tyrell and his wife, and other knights, courtiers and confidants with the privilege of Arianne’s favour.

Sansa had the grace to smile at Drey whilst feeling slightly sheepish.

“My apologies.” Petyr said as they sat themselves amongst them in much the same relaxed way as last night. “I was under the impression Dornish time ran different. When one says ‘be there by noon’, that is to say ‘be there anytime after noon but before the sun sets’.”

There was a small rise of laughter, and Arianne beckoned with her hand towards Petyr “Come Lord Baelish, I find you a funny man, and you shall sit here next to me.” She patted the cushion besides her, and one of her ladies was wise enough to shuffle over to one side silently to allow him room, though she looked less than pleased.

Petyr, of course, obliged her. Sansa had not been called over the same way, and for an awful second did not know what best to do with herself, but thankfully Garlan Tyrell and Lady Leonette beckoned her over to them.

 

Sansa eased herself down gently in her delicate state of un-wellness, her ear picking up Ariannes sweet voice asking Petyr how he slept last night, and boasting about the grand rooms her father provided.

“How far away from home we all are, hm?” Lady Leonette spoke gently to her.   
“Oh, yes. Very far from home.” Sansa said simply, her mind feeling distracted. She could not sit comfortably in her too tight corset.   
“Leonette and myself marvel almost every night that we even set out here. Who would have envisioned us here in Dorne?”   
It was a genial and meaningless thing to say, when without saying a word the three of them understood the weight of them coming here. Through correspondence with Petyr’s informants in Kings Landing, the imprisoned Margaery had apparently requested Garlan be the one to fight for her in a trial by combat, but as he was not a member of the Kingsguard, she could not have him. How hard that news must be to bear as a brother. She too knew the hopelessness one felt when a sibling was in danger yet so far out of reach to render you useless in nothing but your prayers for them. That was why he was here, she supposed, to fight for her in other ways.  
Sansa felt so sad for him. Garlan had always been kind to her, and indeed if it weren’t for him and his family, she would have been married to Joffrey instead of Margaery. Perhaps Garlan had thought of this as well and resented her for being the one who got away, while his sister lamented in a cell, encircled by lions.  
However, none of these thoughts could be articulated over a light hearted lunch, and so she and Garlan and his Lady wife only spoke of frivolous things, in an unspoken understanding.  
As for the lunch, there were plates of fresh fruits and figs, flat breads arranged amongst many little plates of different coloured oils and pastes, little dried and salted fish they ate in pinches with their fingers, and many other things Sansa did not recognise what exactly they were. She turned down all offers of food as politely as she could. 

There was talk of the weather, the food, off Kings Landing and of the Iron Islands, and the goings on of last night, but apparently after some time, Arianne had decided this chatter was boring.

“Lord Baelish,” Arianne’s voice cut above the chatter “I have heard through certain people that you oversee a fair amount of businesses?”

“Why, yes, a fair number.”

“And they are?”

Petyr inclined his head “Various small ventures to keep my money moving. I own ships, houses, and one lends them out to tenants. Buying wool from the North and selling it to the South, Lace from Lys, sold to the-“

He was playing coy, but Arianne would have her fun.

“But what of the brothels I have been told about?”

There were a few titterings from the group. A brothel keeper amongst them, how lascivious. Sansa could scarce believe the Princesses boldness. Besides her she senses Leonette and Garlen stiffen awkwardly at the subject as well, but Arianne’s fellow Dornishmen seemed to have no such reservations.

“A brothel keeper, truly?” Drey asked “I have always wished a brothel keeper as a friend, so I might hear the best stories.”

“And get a ripe discount for your poor turned out pockets.” Said Garin, causing much laughter.

“Please, I haven’t paid coin for cunny yet and I don’t plan on needing to for many years! If anything, as it stands now, I should be the one being paid for my services, Five dragons for a kiss, fifty for a fuck!” Drey half joked, half boasted.

“Fifty dragons?!” Arianne laughed hardest at the thought.

“For all that you see here-“ Drey gestured to his lean frame with a flourish “Is a bargain, my good ladies!”

Lady Nym picked up a pinch of the fish on her plate and held it out to him teasingly “And how much would this get me, good sir whore?”

Even Sansa laughed a little behind her hand, though she blushed as well, as everyone roared with laughter.

“Tell us a bawdy story!” someone called out.

“Yes, tell us who fucks best in Kings landing and who fucks worst, no doubt you know.” Said another.

Petyr stroked his little beard in apparent thought “I can’t say I know who is perhaps the best or worst, as I had so many other duties to attend to in Kings Landing with the Kings council and such, and so I left most of the brothels running to people in my hire. Though I can tell you the more…memorable patronages.”

He was of course urged on to tell of them all.

He regaled them with stories of a highborn man about as tall as he was wide, who would ask the girls to beat him with birch rods whilst referring to themselves as his mother and proclaiming he was a ‘very naughty boy’. Another about a young man in training to be a septon, who came and bought a girl, but before she even touched him he’d fallen to the floor in tears, sobbing and begging the gods forgiveness for his sins, hitting his head against the floor until he was delirious, when Petyr had him carried and dropped off in a daze at the steps of the great sept. They all enjoyed the story of a time one of the younger girls had found a litter of kittens abandoned in Fleabottom, and so she had brought them to the establishment to the amusement of all the others, until one of the things decided it would be great fun to leap up and play with a mans privates from behind as he was knelt behind a girl.

Each story he told built and built to be wilder than the last, and while everyone was keening over laughing and adding in their own most salacious stories, Sansa listened to it all with a rapture she didn’t expect from herself. The stories shocked her and made her blush wildly, but she was curious to hear more.

“And then there was the man who waddled quite strangely up to the establishment doors, on a night I happened to be in and seeing to the accounts, and asked desperately for help. He claimed the handle of his wifes hand mirror had been sitting innocently on the bed as he sat on it and it became hopelessly lodged in his… yes, and he came to us for help, offering the kind of price only a desperate man would offer.”

“And did it ever come out?”

“Yes. With an hours work, a lot of oils and the slim hands of an unfortunate Lyseni girl.”

 

“That story reminds me of a limerick my uncle taught me.” Drey spoke, clearing his throat and waiting for silence.

“There was a young maid of house harrow  
who complained that her cunt was too narrow,  
for time without number,  
she would use a cucumber,  
but could not accomplish a marrow.”

Leonette gave an involuntary and very un-ladylike snort, and buried her face in Garlen’s tunic to hide her laughter. Sansa giggled as well. She remembered back in Winterfell, Theon had had always liked to share these types of bawdy rhymes with Robb and Jon, but they’d try and shoo Sansa and Arya away if they ever overheard them, the two sisters giggling over the naughtiness of it all. 

Then they were all off sharing their own little limericks, passed on by bawdier family members or chanted in local taverns, about busty women from Tumbleton, and lecherous men from Hammerhorn. Sansa half wished she remembered any of of the Winterfell ones, though she doubted she would have the courage to repeat it in company.

Lady Nym asked Petyr if he had any to share, as he so far had been quietly listening.

He gave a sort of half shrug, as if this was all rather passé, but he supposed he could oblige them.

“I’ve heard countless, yet only a few that come to mind. There is one I particularly like though. Let’s hope I get it right.”

Sansa listened as eagerly as the others.

‘Oh maidenhead-taking’s a very great bore,  
It makes cunt and prick so confoundedly sore,  
But fucking the third time’s like heaven above,  
For your prick then glides in as you draw on a glove.’

There was a light murmur of polite laughter, not the raucous laughs of before as this one had a decidedly different feel. Or perhaps it was simply how Sansa felt as Petyr’s low voice recited it, as he moved on to a surprising second verse.

‘Oh give me a damsel of blooming sixteen,  
With two luscious thighs and a mouse-trap between,  
With the fringe on the edge, and two red lips I say,  
In her cunt I’d be diving by night and by day.’

His eyes flitted briefly to hers and Sansa took to looking at the thread of the carpet she sat on, feeling her face grow warm.

“Oh, bravo.” Drey exclaimed “That one was as poetic as it was lewd.”

“My favourite kind of poetry,’ Said Arianne “And here I thought a Valeman would be a terrible bore.” 

“Though current head of the Vale, yes, Lord Petyr was born in the Riverlands, weren’t you?” One courtier spoke.

“No, no, I was indeed fostered at the Riverlands in childhood, but The Fingers was my birthplace, and so that does make me a born Valeman.” Petyr explained to the man.

“And yet he’s spent a large time of his life in Kings Landing.” Tyene added.

Arianne waved her hands at them all “Oh, whichever, I don’t care. Come!” she clapped her hands “I am done eating and I wish to show our guests the beauty of House Martell’s keep. Up!”

And with that they all rose with the Princess. 

Sansa went to stand but as soon as she was on her feet, she felt worryingly light headed, and swayed a little. She hoped it went unnoticed, but Garlen placed his hand gently on her arm.

“Lady Sansa, are you alright?”

“Oh, yes. Yes!” Sansa gave a light laugh, as she waited a moment for the feeling to subside while Garlen and Leonette stood by her sides “I simply got up too fast, that’s all.”

She felt Petyr come up besides her, and she thanked Garlen before slipping her hand into the crook of Petyr’s arm as he offered it.

“Are you alright?” he too asked.

“Yes.” Sansa perhaps snapped a touch “I’m fine. Fine.” 

Petyr looked doubtful “You look pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“Paler than usual then.”

“Perhaps that’s simply because I stand in contrast to the tans of all these Dornishman surrounding us.”

Petyr clucked his tongue “Right.”

A few courtiers and knights excused themselves for other business to attend to, thanking Arianne for the lunch she had hosted, before those who remained set off walking towards the opulent and lush gardens that lay beyond a series of archways besides the pavilion. With them they had Tyene, Nym, Garin, Drey, Leonette and Garlen, Alyse, Jayne and the Fowler twins.

They walked down exceptionally wide limestone stairs, out into the hot sun. There were others milling about, sitting under shades held by young boys, or strolling with their paramours, each dipping their heads in polite recognition of Arianne as they passed her. Some of them gave more curious looks to the foreign visitors that followed behind her. 

“Not as nice as the water gardens, I know, but every castle should have at least one nice garden for one to relax and walk in, don’t you think?” Arianne said.

“And such beautiful flowers!” Leonette exclaimed “Look at these ones, Garlen, we don’t have anything like this back at HighGarden do we?”

She pointed out a cluster of a high green stemmed plant that had little red tubular flowers, bent around to look almost claw like.

“Yes, Dragons Paw. As far as I know they only grow well in arid temperatures like ours, so I doubt you would see them past Sandstone.”

“A shame.” Garlen commented “If they would fare well in our gardens at the Reach, I would have some sent home to grow for you.” 

The two smiled lovingly at each other. Sansa was busy controlling her breathing. She wondered how long she could walk for to be considered polite enough, before excusing herself to go back to her rooms, where she could rip off this corset for relief.

They walked and walked, as Arianne showed more flowers to the delight of Leonette, medicinal flowers, traditional funeral flowers, flowers to heighten desire, there was much talking about flowers. They walked to the bird sanctuary, a tall mud brick tower with birds flying in an out of the intricate honeycomb brickwork near its roof. They walked down pebbled laneways of apple and orange and pomegranate and pear tree’s, and probably other types of trees, Sansa had lost track, she wasn’t much listening by this point. She was hot, sweating so much her hair clung to her neck, and could not focus on anything but how uncomfortable she was. She walked slower and slower, and now they hung back, last in the procession, besides Alyse and Jayne lingering behind them. Petyr must have noticed, despite her efforts of composure.

“You need a shade. One of those boys with the parasols. I’m surprised they didn’t even offer to get you one in the first place. Your skins going to burn at this rate. The other ladies have…have…shawls, I don’t know what they call them, but it’s keeping the sun off them.” He muttered, and indeed, Arianne, Tyene and all the other ladies had soft muslin they had draped over their heads, in some cases having had it wrapped around the waist beforehand or draped over one arm, kept for occasions when they knew the sun would be beating down on them.

“And this dress, I told you you would be too hot. I didn’t know we’d be walking, and not in shade for so long, but still, you should not have worn it.”

Sansa didn’t even argue. She heard him speaking but it wasn’t exactly registering.

“I’m going to ask if we can’t arrange one of those boys to come and shade you, surely there is once close by who’d like to earn a bit of coin.”

He walked off ahead to speak to Tyene or perhaps Arianne, and at once Sansa felt off balance without having him besides her to prop her up.

“Petyr…” she let out feebly, but he didn’t hear her.

She felt unstable on her feet, and all of a sudden a rush of nausea, so bad she worried she really might be sick. She turned in a panic. She couldn’t be sick in a public garden, not in front of the princess and Petyr and everyone, she couldn’t, and in a desperate bid to be anywhere but here to save a shred of decorum, she began walking back towards the pavilion.

Her next couple of thoughts happened very quickly. The first was, oh I’m dizzy. The second was, oh wow, why are there stars in my eyes? and the third was a very, very clear understanding that, oh, I’m dropping to the ground.

Sansa had fainted, and there was much commotion.

Alyse and her daughter Jayne saw it all play out in front of them, and were the first to race forward, with Alyse letting out a shriek, alerting everyone else.

“Oh, gods.” Arianne exclaimed, looking over Petyr’s shoulder as he spoke to her, as she saw Sansa slump to the ground. Petyr turned to where she was looking, and it took a second to register that the crumpled heap of blue velvet on the pebblestones was his Sansa.

‘Fuck’ he muttered, before rushing back to her

Alyse, Jayne, the fowler girls, Garin, Drey and even some random passers-by who were close had huddled around her instantly, propping Sansa up “My lady? My lady are you alright?” Drey shook her.

Sansa could hear it all, but her eyes were still all stars and she was phenomenally dizzy, until slowly her vision came back to her as she tried blinking the stars away.

“I saw that she didn’t eat anything at lunch.” Leonette said as she fussed above her.

“It’s the heat, she’s not used to it.” Nym said, standing by.

Petyr was the one to push past and lean down to her “Give her air, don’t crowd her!” He said, reaching into his doublet and pulling out his small Valyrian dagger he kept on him.

One of the Fowler girls looked at him incredulously “What? What are you going to-“

But Petyr ignored her and took the knife to the back of Sansa’s dress, where he cut through the elaborate lacings of the velvet, and down the even more complicated and tightly laced corset, the knife cutting through the boning as if it was butter with barely any pressure at all. As Sansa was coming around and she felt the great relief of that corset snapping open, she took in a great breath of air and was able to finally fully exhale it.

Another moment of lying there, her bare back exposed, her dress falling off her shoulders, her wits slowly coming back to her, Sansa realised fully what had happened. 

Then the embarrassment took hold of her.

She found Petyr’s gaze as he hovered over her.

“I fainted.” She said.

“I noticed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in over a year! I know! I'm terrible!   
> Unbelievably I have actually been slowly and steadily writing this chapter over the course of a year. Literally snails pace. Mostly writing the first scene of Sansa and the hangover, then editing it after a couple weeks, then editing and adding new bits, then re-reading and editing again. Then over the last couple months got the lunch scene done, and then this week finished the fainting scene! Which is a scene I'd envisioned for this fic from the start. Sansa just not being used to the heat, the corset, not eating or drinking, and in general being dehydrated from her hangover the night before. A recipe for predictable disaster.  
> But of course she made an artful scene of fainting. Petyr was most likely a bit ~affected~ by seeing her all lovely and vulnerable, her hair fanned out and sticking to her bare skin, after having needed to be rescued. And oh, wasn't he the big strong saviour? It's practically a dream scenario.  
> ANYWAY.  
> I still have many scenes in mind I want to write and make happen and have you read. Feel free to suggest any ideas for this sexy Dornish holiday.  
> I'm going to introduce..slight? Plot elements? But not really. They're not going to make the ~most~ sense. But they don't need to. Because this is MY sexy Dornish holiday and it'll happen how I please!


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